


Sunday Morning

by persephone_il (the_ragnarok)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-03-02
Updated: 2002-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:42:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/persephone_il
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunday morning. Sex. That's pretty much it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Morning

I still can't believe he's here, beside me.

There may be better ways to wake up than with Blair Sandburg snoring faintly into your chest, but I'm not sure if I can think one up. He's the proffesor; maybe I'll ask him when he wakes up.

He's warm on top of me, and his skin is surprisingly soft. For someone so durable, he looks strangely fragile when he's sleeping.

I let my hands do what they've been aching to do for months, what they've been doing for three weeks now, and slide them inside his tee shirt. He never goes to sleep naked, because he'd freeze if he went to take a piss in the middle of the night.

Is that something your supposed to know about your roommate? Maybe not, but I still love knowing it. That, and all the other little things. How he likes his tea. Which sock he puts on first. I don't watch these things on purpose, not really - who watches other guys put on their socks, even if last night you had their dick down your throat? - but they seem to sneak up and settle themselves in corners if my mind marked 'Blair'.

There are a lot of corners in my mind with that label on them.

I kind of like slipping my hands into his clothes. The insulation makes his skin warmer and his scent stronger. I like nuzzling into him, too, so I do that, burying my face in his tummy.

"Mmmm." He's not really coherent yet. It takes him a while to wake up; yet another fragment of information. Most days, I get out of bed and make coffee, for which he's grateful once he manages to drag himself out of the bed.

Today's Sunday, though, so I'll just stay here with him until he's fully functional. And until then, I can have some fun by myself.

I don't have a lot of chances to have my wicked way with Blair. Most of the time, he's just buzzing with activity, inside the bed as well as outside. Don't get me wrong, we have sex all the time, but Blair isn't the type to lie down and be done to. He's constantly looking to reciprocate, and while I have nothing against the idea of reciprocation in general, sometimes I just want to flip him over and lick every inch of his body without him getting in the way.

I start with licking his lips. No kissing before we brush our teeth; his morning breath doesn't really bother me, but to my senses, it's so complex I can zone on it in two seconds flat, making the distinction between the usual BlairTaste and the residues of bacterial activity, which is the cause of most cases of bad breath.

Not that he has it. Bad breath, I mean. Somehow, nothing about Blair smells bad to me. He wouldn't even consider letting me try rimming, but I bet I'd love it. He doesn't particulary want to do me himself, so I let it slide. I don't want him to get uncomfortable.

So I content myself with licking. The taste of his skin varies from one point to another. I lick his eyelids gently, just the softest possible brush of tongue. The skin there is so delicate, almost like paper. If I dial sight high enough, I can see the color of his eyes through it. I'm mostly concentrated on taste now, though, with some edge on touch to keep me from zoning.

He tastes like everything warm and fulfilling. I slide down his body now, giving his nipples just a cursory nip. I can make him come just by playing with them, switching from tiny kisses to soft bites, without even going near his cock. I did that to him a few times, just for the sake of driving him mad. I like doing that.

But now, I have other plans in mind. I stop for a moment at his navel, sampling the taste inside. Mmmm. Blair. My favourite. Then I continue down, towards the main course.

Some people may call this a blow job. As a clinical description, I guess it works, but I still don't like it. It sounds like something done in dark allyways for a few bucks. What I'm doing to Blair... Sometimes I think I like it better than he does.

He has sweats on, but no underwear. I love it when he goes commando; I can put my hands inside his pants and just fish around until I come up with something I like. I do just that, pulling my catch out when I get it.

I don't think his cock is beautiful. It's wonderful, in it's own way, but I don't think 'beautiful' applies to something so physical. To me, that word means aesthetic appreciation. I can say that Blair is beautiful, and he is, but his body and its parts are just.. there. There is no better adjective for it.

Because a painting can be beautiful, but a painting isn't something you can touch and lick ans sniff and curl beside on a lazy Sunday morning. Sometimes, when I see his face at just a particular angle, I can't bear the thought of touching him, of desecrating his perfection with something as earthly as my fingers.

But then he says something silly, or pats me with those square, capable hands and I remember that he's real and alive and won't break under my attention. He's stronger than people think.

Taking him down my throat is easy. I've had plenty of practice. There's no urgency right now, just an unhurried enjoyment of his texture, his scent.

Blair's moaning, and his hands skate down to my face, to my lips, tracing the place where he's penetrating my body. He does that a lot, as if he can't believe I've let him inside. I understand that. Sometimes, _I_ can't believe I've let him inside. He's inside me in more ways than I could ever articulate.

So much for Blair's passivity. He tries to get me to move so I'm on fours over his body, my mouth on his cock and his mouth just below my groin. He doesn't seem to get the fact that I _like_ doing him without distraction. I'd tell him, but whenever I try words dry up and I stutter and something innocent and insignificant comes out instead.

He's getting insistent, and I surrender. Nothing new about that. My almost instinctive obediance to him would scare me, if I ever wanted to say 'no' to him. Seriously. I don't think I'd resent giving my right hand to him, without benefit of anasthesia or dialling down, if he so much as asked.

For this, however, I have no intention of dialling down. Blair knows what he's doing. I managed to ask him about his past experience once or twice, but each time he invented ridiculous fantasies that either had me rolling on the floor or both of us rolling on the bed. It's Blair's special way of changing the subject, and I don't really mind. He'll tell me when he's ready.

I move enough to please him, and he grabs my butt and tries to get me to plunge into his mouth. I'd rather not, actually; I don't want to let go of the hot flesh inside my mouth, but I don't want to bite him, either. I stay still, and for once Blair seems to get the message. He keeps stroking me, though, petting me like he might a cat.

The cat analogy hasn't evaded him, appearantly, because he's murmuring "Here, kitty, nice kitty..."

I chuckle around his length, and that makes him moan again. And stroke me faster, which does not help my plans for a drawn out suckling. When he starts talking, I know this will be over sooner than I would've liked it to be.

"Ohhh.. yeah, Jim, do that again.. God, your good at this. How did you.. ohh.. get so good at this?"

Practice, I say, but there's something quite substancial in my mouth blocking the word. Doesn't matter. He may have the energy to talk right now, but at least I've made him unable to listen. Sometimes I think Blair would still be able to talk after the world and all its inhabitants have exploded.

"You like this? Yeah.. oh, yeah.. I guess you do, huh?" His voice is getting dreamier, more breathy, and I know he's close. I speed up a bit, adding some tongue. His hips rise to meet me, and I'm filled with awe. I made him want this. I made him want me.

"Yes! God, yes!" He's sobbing now, there's a constant taste of bitter-sweet fluid dripping from his dick. I lick as much as I can, savouring the taste. It's wonderful. It's Blair.

His hands come back to my head, holding me in place as he thrusts. I stay still, letting him take what he needs. Whatever he wants, it's his. I'm his.

I keep his thighs in place while he comes, though. I want his come in my mouth. I like the texture. It's thick, slightly sticky, and if I dial up touch I feel it buzzing like exploding lemon drops. It's.. well, nice.

Blair's hands are petting my head again, messing with what's left of my hair. He does that every time after we have sex, grounding me and himself at the same time. His hands go to my shoulders, pulling me to him.

"Good morning," he says, rubbing his cheek against mine.

"Uh huh." My voice is rough, from the early hour as much from the activity it was just engaged in.

"Hell of a way to wake up." His voice isn't all that smooth, either.

"Anytime you want a wakeup service, just call me."

"Mmm. I'll consider it." He smiles at me lazily and opens his legs wide, reminding me I haven't come yet. I grind against him a little bit, and I could come like this in two minutes flat with no problems whatsoever.

Blair has other plans in mind, appearantly. He hands me the lube and a condom. I take them without a word.

Being inside him is more than just friction on my dick. He lets me wrap myself in him. He protects me from the big bad world, which would've deep fried my brain if I didn't have Blair to shield me and my senses from it.

Lucky for me, I do have him.

I love the way it feels inside him. Even when it's just my fingers that actually penetrate him. He relaxes so quickly I can practically feel the muscles unclenching, letting me in. In a few minutes, he's soft and wet and I can let myself in without hurting him.

I moan as my dick is inside him. I want to pound into him, and he's loose enough that I could do it if I wanted, but I want this to last. To savor each spark of pleasure as it singes me.

Remember what I said about protection from a deep fried brain? Forget it. He can fry my brain any day of the week.

I take it as slow as I can, long enough that he's hardening again. I change my angle a bit, enough to bump into that sweet spot he likes so much, and dial up hearing because if I concentarted on touch I wouldn't last three seconds.

That makes him moan again, and now he's thrashing around as well because he knows how crazy that makes me. He's lying in front of me, jerking, wide open, layed out in front of me like the most wonderful feast ever.

I bend to tug at his nipple ring with my teeth, and his back arches at me in a way that has no thought in it whatsoever, only need and lust. It doesn't take long to send him over the edge.

I wish I could make him come with my mouth on his dick and my own dick in his ass. As it is, I satisfy myself with licking the cream that comes near my mouth and ride the last of his spasms to my own finish.

The moment after climax are just so _sweet_. He's running his fingers on my face, my skull, kissing my cheek. It's more intimate than sex, those golden moments when there's only trust and satiation and affection.

"Love you, man, love you so much," he mumbles. I don't say it back to him; I only do that when I can't help it, when it's so overwhelming I have no choice. We both prefer it like this. Nobody knows better than Blair how easily words can be mutated and changed. He says that I communicate with touch, that I'm fluent in it. He says that you can't lie with touch.

I run my hands through his hair and think about him pestering me and annoying me and knowing exactly what I need. I'd quote poetry to him if I knew the right verses, the ones that has him in them. He finds words for me so easily. But I know that even though touch isn't his native language, he understands what I'm telling him.

* * *


End file.
